elastic heart
by makapedia
Summary: Sometimes - most times - he treats her like spun glass.


Sometimes - most times - he treats her like spun glass.

And that's fine. Really. There was once a version of her that longed for such a thing, of such lavish treatment. Once upon a time, she'd been a celebrated princess, spoiled sweet, and when she'd daydream about someday, about happily ever after and laying in her marital bed with her one true love, she'd blush herself to sleep, thinking about such sweetness, such gentleness. Careful touches, gentle kisses, the way long blond hair would look haloed around her face as he'd lean over her, nose brushing hers-

… Once upon a time, she'd wanted unwavering sweetness. Wanted baby blue eyes, and kind smiles, and blushing cheeks, and, and.

 _(And.)_

Some days - _most days_ \- Yona doesn't know who she'd been all those months ago. It'd been a simpler time, perhaps, and one could say she'd been a simpler girl, but even that doesn't feel quite right. When she thinks back, it feels a little like trying to look through the early-morning fog; she knows the path, but the details are distorted, blurred. She remembers the feelings but never the thoughts. The rush of blood but never the reason _why._

She doesn't like to think she's someone new. Really, she's the same girl she's always been, a little spitfire, a lot sweet. Dreamy, with the same mess of red hair. There's a part of her still, she's sure, that's afraid to lose that girl she'd been at fourteen, at fifteen, at barely sixteen - shedding her adolescence hadn't been her choice, after all. There's something jarring, about having her life torn from beneath her feet, but when Yona looks into the mirror these days, it's still the same girl staring back. The same eyes, if a bit more tired. The same hair, if a little shorter. The same smile, if not a shade older.

And maybe that's it. She is still the same Yona, the same spoiled princess, only older, wiser. Harder. Tougher around the edges.

It'd taken just much as it'd given. With great pain came great growth.

Hak still treats her with gentle hands, though, when he touches her. Shaking hands, even, as he dips down to kiss her, and it's so unlike him, to take anything so carefully. It's a little funny, when she thinks about it; he's known for being dangerous on the battlefield, ruthless, strong, brutal - but with her, it's like he's afraid she might break between his hands. Like if he holds on too tightly, she might shatter. Or crumble beneath the weight of his want.

Most times, he treats her like spun glass.

It's not that she minds it. There is something sweet in the way he kisses her, when they're alone at night, when they don't have dragons peeking in through cracked doors. It's slow and sweet, in the very way fifteen year old Yona had always thought she'd wanted things to be. When he holds her face in his hands, she feels like a princess again. And if she closed her eyes, she's sure she could picture it, the canopy of her bed, the throne of pillows, the softness of her sheets.

The inn's mattress creaks beneath their weight. It brings her back to her reality, and Hak's lashes tickle her neck as he kisses down her shoulder, slowly. Yona of yesteryear would be passive, would allow him to lead her to that promised land, that happily ever after.

She doesn't mind it, but it doesn't always feel like the right fit for her anymore.

He's warm beneath her hands. When she touches him, he yields beneath her, and it is _sweet,_ when he rolls onto his back, when he sighs and allows her to plant herself on top of him.

" _Princess,_ " he says, lowly.

Her conviction doesn't waver beneath the warmth of his stare, the darkness of his eyes, and she maps the plains of his chest with sure palms. These are the shoulders of a boy she's known forever, and the heart of a man who'd held her hand even though her fire. There's something sentimental in that, she thinks, even as she does very not sweet things, fondling her way down his waist, taking him into her greedy palms.

It's the first time she's taken control like this and the effect isn't lost on him. He tries to keep his cool, but the bite of his teeth pressing into his lower lip undoes something in her, and Yona tosses her head to the side, allowing her rowdy curls to arc around her carelessly. It's like burning, the way he feels beneath her, the way she feels above him, and she's not delicate, not anymore.

"Do you want me?" she finds herself asking, and there's something building in her, something untamed and wild and _searing_. The mattress dips beneath her skinny knees as she raises herself up, and there's something powerful, about reducing such a beast of a man with nothing more than her hands.

He watches her hips with rapt attention. Breathes out, shallowly, his own fingers digging into the cheap sheets. "Princess."

"Say it," she says, asks, commands, and she sinks back, sliding against him. He's hot against her, but it's nothing compared to the fire that threatens to burn through her chest and set her heart ablaze.

(It's the hardest he's ever been, she thinks through the haze.)

His hips budge, just barely, despite his control. She slips against him, slick and ready, but she doesn't allow him in, not yet. "Hak."

"I want you," he says, tightly, and there's something about the way his voice cracks as he fills her so completely that's strangely freeing.

It's sweet, when he brushes her thighs with the meekest of touches, but it's sweeter when she takes his hands, places them on her hips and he keeps them there. The press of his nails reminds her she's alive, and she blurts, "You won't break me," as she leans her head back and allows herself to drive for once.

His hips stutter, just for a moment. "Brat," he grunts, and she keens, as he raises his hips to meet her. "Stop _bouncing_ , you'll tire yourself out-"

"I want _you,_ " she admits, and leans back over him, palms over his chest, seeking out the steady beat of his heart. He's alive, too, even if his skin is marred, even if he's beaten and just as damaged as she is, these days. "You won't break me."

"I never said I would." But he tugs her, holding her more tightly than he ever has before, and Yona thinks she might like it a little rough, sometimes. Might like the pride in his eyes, as she takes what she wants from him, as she gives, and gives, and gives. It's like he doesn't know what to do with himself, to be on the receiving end, for once, of her services - but it's a sort of power trip, for her, having command over something, again, for once. When she moves, he moves. When she bows her head and bites his neck he sighs and shudders.

It's like daylight breaks before her. The fog only lasts for so long, in the early morning, and the warmth of the sun tears through her like a knife. A thousand volts, straight to the heart, and she pulls his hair, unbidden, desperately, as she chases that ending.

He moans like he never has before, and it's the sweetest victory, she thinks, to bring him such pleasure. She is passive no longer, not while he looks at her like that, not while he mutters her name, brokenly, under her breath and holds onto her like a lifeline. Does he know how she wants him? Does he understand? Sometimes - most times - she doesn't think he does.

It is not pretty, and it's not delicate, but it's sweet, undeniably, in their clumsy, adoring sort of way, and when he tenses beneath her and rushes to that ending, she feels prouder than she has in years. Complete. Like she's queen of the world.

As if she's queen of anything anymore.

But she doesn't have long to sit and contemplate it. He's not passive either, and she's under him in a minute, and he's sinking lower, lower, smiling almost devilishly as he takes a dainty ankle in his hand and throws it over his shoulder, licking his lips.

"Do you want me, princess?" he parrots back, and though he's smug, there's still a frustrating, aroused part of her that flares up at the question like nothing else. As if it's a question at this point. As if he even has to make her say it _again._

"I- _Hak,_ " she gasps, blushing all the way to her ears as he kisses down her leg, presses his lips against the plush of her thigh and rests there, watching her through his lashes.

His thumb brushes her clit slowly, gradually. He presses and rubs wet circles into her and melts her bones into helpless, pathetic mush, and only asks, "Do you want me?" again as she sputters and whines his name like a broken bird.

He'll be the death of her. Brat. Not cute at all.

But he's hers, so it's okay. It doesn't have to be a fairy tale for her to think it special. It just has to be him, and the way he laughs, and the way he lets her squeeze his head between her thighs without calling her brazen. It's trust, she thinks, and maybe something else, something more - but it's comfortable, and safe, and she wouldn't trade this happiness she's found for anything else. Not even for once upon a time.


End file.
